


Follow You Into the Dark

by lostsoul512



Series: Into the Dark [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 06:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10848504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostsoul512/pseuds/lostsoul512
Summary: This is not a dream. This is your reality. You wake up, and you're alive, but not really, and he is the only thing you have left to hold onto.





	Follow You Into the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to ff.net.

This is not a dream.

This is your reality.

This is waking up to nothing, to a cold, vacant emptiness, or at least you think it's cold, but you cant seem to grasp anything long enough to really be sure what it is. This is opening your eyes and seeing only darkness, shadows flickering in and out of focus, only you cant seem to look at them long enough to make out any shapes. This is a thousand memories of blood and burning and screaming, trying to drag themselves out from the corners of your mind, and somehow being shoved back down, just out of reach, out of reach until you aren't sure they were ever there in the first place.

This is losing all control.

This is your reality.

…

When Koltira opens his eyes for the first time, all he can see is darkness, strangely similar to the darkness that filled his unconscious mind, and so for a few minutes, he isn't really sure he has opened his eyes at all. It's only when he hears the sound of a low, deep voice, reverberating in a way that doesn't quite seem natural. Koltira thinks that he recognizes this voice, but he can't seem to place it, came seem to listen long enough to remember where he had heard it before.

And then, slowly, painfully slow, his vision shifts into focus, shadows blurring into each other until they collide and form the shape of a human, sitting a little too close, watching him a little too intently.

"You're awake," he breathes, the words soft and rushed, seeming to be almost tinged with relief. Just as Koltira's brows have pulled themselves together into a frown, the human's lips have twitched up into a small smile, barely visible, especially in the darkness of the shadows that seemed to gather around them and cling to them. "I was starting to worry."

Koltira opens his mouth to say something, anything, he doesn't even care what, blinks a few times just to try and clear away some of the obscurity that seems to have befallen his mind, a fog through which he cant seem to see anything clearly, the edges of his vision going fuzzy, flickering in and out of focus. He recognizes that voice, teetering on the line between calm and frantic, this quiet desperation that is somehow lulling him and putting him on edge all at once, only he cant seem to sift through his mind fast enough to figure out why. And he recognizes those eyes, too, blazingly blue, too blue, unnaturally blue.

The elf isn't sure what to say, though, and he isn't sure what the hell is going on, but trying to figure it out seems to be taking an unnecessary amount of effort. So, for now, he decides to push it aside, and instead he channels what energy he does have into pushing himself up into a sitting position. Only, when he starts to shift he finds his movements are constricted in a way that sends a slight rush of panic through him, and when he cranes his neck to investigate, he finds that much of his chest and stomach have been wrapping in thick white gauze, as though the bandages had been put in place to hold him together.

Koltira draws his elongated brows together once more, lips falling open and allowing a small huff of a breath to pass between them. Leaning all of his weight onto one arm, he lifts the other hand in a slow, deliberate movement, and when his own gaze flickers back to that of the human, he senses some strange emotion there, only it has vanished before he is really able to decipher it, and he isn't sure he could have named it if he'd had the chance in the first place.

As soon as Koltira's calloused fingertips brush against the softness of the bandages, it's as though the shadows have parted, the fog has lifted, and whatever had been holding back his memories lets them all go at once. Suddenly, his mind is overloaded, images flashing one after the other across his mind, flickering in and out focus, overwhelming him, consuming him. Oh, he can remember now, he can remember it all so fucking vividly, he can see the trees of Quel'thalas as they burn, he can hear the cries of his people, he can see their corpses piled up in the streets-

A strangled scream falls from his lips as he lunges at Thassarian.

…

This is not a dream.

This is your reality.

The lust is all that exists now. It drives you on, pushes you harder, makes you stronger.

The need to kill, to destroy, to tear down anything in your path. To see the beautiful gleam of crimson blood as it rolls down the edge of your blade, to feel it coating your skin and dying the tips of your hair with red. To taste its coppery essence as you lick it from your lips.

You revel in this feeling. You crave the blood, the pain, the death. This lust is all that you have left now, and so, blindly, you follow into the dark.

…

There is no pain. Koltira cant stop thinking about this as his fingers work to undo the blood soaked bandages. There is no pain, no scab, no dried vital fluid caked onto his pale flesh. There is only a long, thick scar that stretches from his sternum to his abdomen, a jagged line that stands out vividly against the rest of his skin. He traces it up and down a few times, always sort of expecting there to be some pain, but no, there is no pain.

There's no fire, either. The dead don't need the warmth, and they certainly don't need the light. But his eyes can see that scar, which, he thinks idly, probably shouldn't have even been a scar yet, shouldn't have even been closed up yet, and still, here he is, tracing the scar that is most certainly closed, still some twisted definition of alive, in spite of the fact that less than a day ago he'd had Thassarian's sword through his ribcage.

The human has been quiet, but never seems to stray too far away from him. When Koltira had attacked him, he'd managed to pin the elf down with ease, and he had held him there against the dirt ground in spite of all his thrashing, all his violent attempts to draw his blood, because wasn't that was Thassarian did to him? He killed him, didn't he?

And still, here he is, not quite alive but certainly not dead, sitting in the pitch black cover brought on by the night and the high trees of the forest, and yet somehow still able to see the stark white line of the scar. A constant reminder of what he has become, even if he isn't quite sure what that is yet.

As if on queue, as if the human possesses some strange ability to peer into his thoughts, Thassarian speaks up. "You will adjust."

For the first time since he had awoken, Koltira looks at him, really looks, without the fog settling in around his mind or the frantic panic blinding him. Thassarian has silvery hair and eyes that are so bright the elf finds looking into them for too long is blinding. He fingers a strand of his own hair and finds it to be a similar color, or maybe it's just the lack of any color at all. He wonders if that's how his eyes look now too, if maybe Thassarian feels blinded when he looks at him too.

"Adjust," Koltira repeats softly; it's the first word he has spoken since waking up, or coming back to life, or whatever the fuck this is. He is startled at the sound of his own voice, the melodious tone now replaced with a dark, hissing sound that seems to echo a little longer than it should. He sucks in a greedy breath, wonders if he even really needs to breathe now, or if it's just something his body does out of habit, a small attempt to pretend it's still alive, and lets it back out in a small huff. "I am not even certain what I'm adjusting to. What- what I am, what I am doing here when my brothers and sisters lay dead in the streets, my city in ruins-"

All at once, the words die on his tongue, lodge in his throat, refuse to force their way through his lips. Koltira suddenly seems painfully aware of the silence left over, not even the steady beats of his heart to fill the void. A shadow falls over him, which he cant help but think is strange, because it's so dark he doesn't think he should be able to pick out a single shadow from the rest of the black. But somehow this shadow seems darker than the rest, as if all the rest of the shadows are massing around this singular figure, and somehow through it all Koltira's eyes are able to make out the shape of a body, broad chest and pale skin and angled jaw, a mess of platinum hair shoved away from his face, and the most sadistic smirk he has ever seen.

He thinks that he is supposed to recognize this figure, but his awareness is slipping away, until he isn't sure he has ever had it at all. It's like a dim recollection in the back of his mind, something he thinks that he was able to grasp once but is now entirely out of reach, and he is far too tired to care now, and he is wondering why he ever needed awareness in the first place, when losing all control and giving into the dark is so, so simple.

A shiver moves through him, tendrils of fog that reach out and twist their way through his mind, a gentle touch that sifts through his thoughts, sorts through his memories. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't blink. Doesn't even try to block out this new presence that has taken up residence in his mind. Just stares up into those blue eyes, so pale that Koltira isn't sure there is any color there at all. Not the same unnatural shade as Thassarian's eyes, the same shade he supposes his own have become. They're half-lidded now, he thinks, drooping a little as his mind goes numb, as he feels the unnerving sensation of losing control of his own mind, his own self.

The shadow before him smiles. Koltira, he says, except he doesn't say it, the elf realizes, because his lips aren't moving and there's no sound to break the silence. No, he hasn't spoke at all, and yet Koltira hears him clearly, feels him speaking, words meant only for him that resonates only in his own mind.

It's Koltira that speaks aloud, though the most he seems able to choke out is a muttered, "Yes."

The shadows shift. Regroup. Grow darker, somehow, though Koltira isn't sure that's actually possible. The figure before him leans in, and the darkness follows. You will serve me now, he says without speaking.

One by one, his memories are flickering out of sight. His brother- dead- and his homeland- destroyed- and his very sense of self- whatever he was now- all gone. They blink out of existence, one by one, stars swallowed up by an eternal night sky, until not a single source of light remains.

Koltira closes his eyes, or at least he thinks he does, but when everything is so dark, so vacant, so empty, it's hard to tell for sure. He bows his head, and without speaking, he says, yes.

And he follows the shadow into the dark.

…

This is not a dream.

This is your reality.

Except you don't even know what that is anymore, do you? And you certainly don't know who you are anymore.

You used to know. Or at least, think you knew, because you never had to think about it at all. Because he was there, always there, this fog that fell over your mind and made it so that nothing else existed. He led, you followed, end of story.

Now, the fog has lifted. The shield is gone.

The light has broken through the darkness.

And all you see waiting on the other side is nothing. Because that's what you are now, isn't it? No purpose, no meaning, no direction. No one to lead the way.

Just you and all of your regrets, all of your atrocities laid out before you, one by one. No one to protect you from what you have done.

This is your reality.

...

There is no pain. But Koltira can't stop thinking that this feeling has to be damned close.

It has been so long since he has felt pain, felt anything at all, he isn't even sure he would know what it was like. But now there is this gaping hole, this vacuousness, and he knows that this is the part of him where Arthas used to be, but he doesn't want to think about Arthas right now. He doesn't want to think about anything, really, but this is a task easier said than done, and as he sits against the wall of his chamber in Acherus, trailing his fingers idly over the flat edge of his runeblade Byfrost, he finds his mind wandering in a thousand directions.

That, too, is a strange concept to him, the ability to allow his thoughts to drift without knowing that if ever he strays too far in one direction, there will be that reassuring gentle tug to pull him back, to keep him sheltered from everything he has done. So much blood, so much death, spilled by his hands. So many bodies left for dead, not that anything ever stayed dead for long where the Scourge was concerned.

This emptiness has not left for three days now, since Light's Hope. Koltira has tried to will it away, to push aside those thoughts, to distract himself, but it's been so long since he's had any control over his own mind that he has found he no longer recalls how to do it. Now, all he can picture is Silvermoon being torn to shreds, and he can picture the faces of the dead twisted in agony, and he can remember the weight of his sword as he drove it through the chests of any that opposed him. Because Arthas told him to. Because Arthas' word was all that mattered, all that existed, a shadow so dark that it blotted out any and all sources of light.

Mograine says that they are going to stop him. They are going to make him pay for what he did to them, and to all the rest of Azeroth. Retribution. Justice. Vengeance. One or the other. Koltira knows that this is supposed to give him a purpose, a new cause to throw himself into entirely. First it was the Farstriders, and then it was the Scourge, and now it's the Knights of the Ebon Blade. The name can change a thousand times; it all just amounts to following orders.

Koltira flips the runeblade over, traces the patterns of the runes that line the steel.

A knock at the door draws him out of his own mind, sends him crashing back into the bleak, uncertain reality that has become his life. He tilts his head a little, watches the doorway, but doesn't bother to speak. It matters not, he knows, and a moment later he is proven right when Thassarian pushes open the door and lets himself in. Death knights don't need to sleep, not really, but the human looks so, so tired. Likely he has been helping Mograine with trying to get this whole situation under control, trying to sort out what the fuck they're going to do now, because they're all just a bunch of lost sheep, and now their shepherd is gone, and they have no one to follow.

"Tira," he says, in this voice so soft and gentle and full of worry he can't hardly stand it. He drops his gaze instantly back to his sword, traces the runes, hopes that his own expression isn't nearly as readable. Three days ago, he didn't even think he was capable of having feelings, and now all of these things he's had repressed for so long have all been dragged right up to the surface, and he's drowning under all the guilt and regret and panic, and a part of him honestly wonders if he was better off not being able to feel anything in the first place.

Thassarian makes his way over to the elf, lowers himself onto the floor at his side, and reaches out slowly to take Byfrost from his hold. Koltira doesn't bother trying to stop him, but he feels painfully aware of Thassarian's fingers brushing against his own. Koltira steals a glance from the corner of his eye to see if he noticed it as well, but he cant seem to catch his gaze long enough to tell for sure.

For a long time, there is only silence, and they sit side by side like that, close enough that their legs are pressed against each other. Neither of them tries to move away, either, because they've always been close. Brothers in unlife, undeath, whatever this is. With Thassarian there next to him, Koltira's thoughts don't seem quite as overwhelming as they did before, and he is able to take a few steadying breaths that he knows he doesn't need but that seem to calm him down anyway.

"I've been thinking," Thassarian says eventually, breaking first, not that Koltira is surprised. The elf has never really been one for words. But he angles his body a little so as to better face the human, leaning all of his weight onto one hand and folding his legs under him. Thassarian pauses for a moment, watching him with some indecipherable expression, or maybe Koltira just doesn't have the courage to try to decipher it. He can barely handle all of his own newfound emotions, and most certainly doesn't want to try and understand anyone else's.

The human takes his silent gaze as an indication to go on. "I've been thinking about...what happened between us, when I- I-"

Koltira lifts one of his elongated brows. "Stuttering doesn't suit you, Thassarian," he scows. "I do believe that at this point you should be able to speak to me without stumbling all over yourself."

Death knights don't blush, not really, but if they could, Thassarian would have been blushing profusely now, he thinks, and suddenly his azure eyes are looking anywhere but at him. "When I killed you," he finally finishes, and Koltira hates the way his deep, bellowing voice seems to shake as he does. Like saying the words aloud, being forced to admit to his crimes, is just too much for him to bear. Koltira understands this, he really does, and he gets the distinct feeling that most everyone else here in Acherus does too.

Swallowing hard, he manages to find his voice long enough to say, "What about it?", and he wishes the words didn't come out quite so sharply, because he thinks Thassarian actually flinches at his tone.

He's still looking away, for the most part, but every few seconds he tries to catch Koltira's eye, and there is a look of fear that looks so entirely out of place on his face. "I just," he replies slowly, deliberately, drawing his words out. "I want you to know that I...well, I am sorry, Koltira. Ever since Light's Hope, when I saw my father...I- I just keep thinking about what I did, to you and to my mother-"

In a movement so quick it's barely visible, Koltira has reached out and taken Thassarian's hand in his own, thumb tracing little circles over the rough skin. "Don't," he interrupts, giving him a pointed look. The human must be startled, because he cuts off mid sentence, and his body seems to go rigid, and his glowing eyes are widened as they finally lock with those of the elf kneeling before him.

"Don't," Koltira repeats, quieter this time. "Don't apologize to me. We've all done things that we regret, Thass. But…" he trails off for a moment, contemplating. Suddenly, with Thassarian's hand in his own, it all seems so clear to him. All this time he has wasted, wondering why he had allowed himself to become such a monster, wondering how he could possibly go on living, knowing how much death he had caused. All this time wasted, and yet the answer has been so painfully obvious from the beginning.

For the first time in as long as he can remember, Koltira feels the edges of his lips twitch in a real, genuine smile. "But it doesn't matter anymore," he goes on, giving Thassarian's hand a gentle squeeze. "Because we were given a chance to make it right."

Thassarian can't help it; he wrinkles his nose at the uncharacteristically optimistic words from the elf. "You sound like Mograine and Fordring," he mutters. "It's all they have been telling everyone for the past three days straight."

Koltira lets out a chilling laugh. "I can't imagine morale is very high at the moment," he remarks. "But we will endure. We have survived thus far, haven't we?"

The human gives an eerie grin. "Survive is a relative term," he points out, "but yes, I suppose you're right."

A few seconds pass. Koltira feels overly aware of the fact that their hands are still clasped together, but neither of them has tried to pull away yet. And besides, he finds that he is able to draw a strange sense of comfort from the touch, from the feeling of just feeling something, after so many years of being numb. He looks up through his lashes at Thassarian, his brother in arms, his closest friend, and all he has left in the world now. Somehow, though, that doesn't seem so very bad.


End file.
